JANET THOMPSON DRAGGED HER canoe through stinky blooms of algae to the shoreline by the Epping Road. She couldn’t remember when this part of the Beaver River appeared like this. When she glanced up, she saw Charlotte Bradley waiting on the shore, a sign tucked under her arm. She glanced down. "More of this stuff downstream?" Charlotte nodded. “Used to be a piece of cake,” Janet called out in her gravelly voice as she slipped and then regained her footing. She blew away a wisp of white h...